5
I tended Poletes far into the night. We had only wine to ease his pain, and nothing at all to ease the anguish of his mind. I laid him on the cot in my own tent, groaning and sobbing. Magro found a healer, a dignified old graybeard with two young women assistants. He spread a salve on his burns and the bleeding slits where his ears had been.
“Not even the gods can return his sight,” the healer told me solemnly, in a whisper Poletes could not hear. “The eyes have been burned away.”
“The gods be damned,” I growled. “Will he live?”
If my words shocked the healer he gave no sign of it. “His heart is strong. If he survives the night he could live for years to come.”
The healer mixed some powder into the wine cup and made Poletes drink. It put him into a deep sleep almost at once. His women prepared a poultice and showed me how to smear it over a cloth and put it on Po-letes’ eyes. They were silent throughout, instructing me by showing rather than speaking, as if they were mute. They never dared look directly into my face. The healer seemed surprised that I myself acted as Poletes’ nurse, but he said nothing about it and maintained his professional dignity.
I sat over the blinded old storyteller far into the night, putting fresh compresses on his eyes every hour or so, keeping him from reaching up to the burns with his hands. He slept, but even in sleep he groaned and writhed.
Twice I ducked out of the tent and checked my sons. They were still sleeping quietly, side by side, wrapped in a good blanket, oblivious to the world and all its pain.
The candle by the cot had burned down to a flickering stub. Through the flap in my tent I could see the sky starting to turn a pinkish gray with the first hint of dawn. Poletes’ breathing suddenly quickened and he made a grab for the cloth covering his eyes. I was faster and gripped his wrists before he could hurt himself.
“Master Lukka?” His voice was cracked and dry.
“Yes,” I said. “Put your hands down at your sides. Don’t reach for your eyes.”
“Then it’s true? It wasn’t a nightmare?”
I held his head up slightly and gave him a sip of water. “It’s true,” I said. “You’re blind.”
The moan he uttered would have wrenched the heart out of a marble statue.
“Agamemnon,” he said, many moments later. “The mighty king took his vengeance on the lowly storyteller. As if that will make his wife faithful to him.”
“Try to sleep,” I told him. “Rest is what you need.”
He shook his head and the cloth slid off, revealing two raw burns where his eyes had been. I went to replace the cloth, saw that it was getting dry, and smeared more poultice on it from the bowl at my side.
“You might as well slit my throat, Master. I’ll be of no use to you now. No use to anyone.”
“There’s been enough blood spilled here,” I said.
“No use,” he muttered as I put the soothing cloth over the place where his eyes had been. Then I propped up his head again and gave him more wine. He soon fell asleep once more.
Magro stuck his head into my tent. “Lukka, King Odysseos wants to see you.”
I stepped out into the brightening morning. Commanding Magro to watch over my sons and the sleeping Poletes, I walked swiftly to Odysseos’ boat and clambered up the rope ladder that dangled over its curving hull.
The deck was heaped with treasure looted from Troy. I turned from the dazzling display to look back at the city. The fires seemed to have died down, but hundreds of tiny figures were already at work up on the battlements, pulling down the blackened stones, working under the rising sun to level the walls that had defied the Achaians for so long.
I had to step carefully along the gunwale to avoid tripping over the piles of treasure spread over the deck. Odysseos was at his usual place on the afterdeck, standing in the golden sunshine, his broad chest bare, his hair and beard still wet from his morning swim. He had a pleased smile on his thickly bearded face.
Yet his eyes searched mine as he said, “The victory is complete, thanks to you, Hittite.” Pointing to the demolition work going on in the distance, he added, “Troy will never rise again.”
I nodded grimly. “Priam, Hector, Paris—the entire House of Ilios has been wiped out.”
“All but Aeneas the Dardanian. Rumor has it that he was a bastard of Priam’s. We haven’t found his body.”
“He might have been consumed in the fire.” Like my wife, I thought. But I held my tongue. No sense making an enemy of this man who had taken me into his house hold.
“It’s possible,” said Odysseos. “But I don’t think it’s terribly important. If Aeneas lives, he’s hiding somewhere nearby. We’ll find him. Even if we don’t, there won’t be anything left here for him to return to.”
As I gazed out toward the distant city, one of the massive stones of the parapet by the Scaean Gate was pulled loose by a horde of slaves straining with levers and ropes. It tumbled to the ground with a heavy cloud of dust. Moments later I heard the thump.
“Apollo and Poseidon won’t be pleased with what’s being done to the walls they built,” I said.
Odysseos laughed. “Sometimes the gods have to bow to the will of men, Hittite, whether they like it or not.”
“You’re not afraid of their anger?”
He shrugged. “If they didn’t want us to pull down the walls, we wouldn’t be able to do it.”
I wondered. The gods are subtler than men, and have longer memories.
Odysseos mistook my silence. “I heard about your wife,” he said, his voice grave. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to save her.”
“I found my sons,” I replied tightly. “They’re safe with my men now.”
“Good.” He gestured toward a large pile of loot at the stern of the boat. “It’s your turn to select your treasure from the spoils of the city, Hittite. Take one-fifth of everything you see.”
I thanked him and spent the next hour or so picking through the stuff. I selected blankets, armor, clothing, weapons, helmets: things we would need once we left this accursed place. And jewels that could be traded for food and shelter once we were away from Ilios.
“There are captives down there, between the boats. Take one-fifth of them, also.”
I shook my head. “I’d rather have horses and donkeys. Women will merely cause fights among my men.”
Odysseos eyed me carefully. “You speak like a man who has no intention of sailing to Ithaca with me.”
“My lord,” I said, “you have been more than generous to me. But no man in this camp raised a hand to rescue my wife. No man helped to save my servant from Agamemnon’s cruelty.”
“You expect much, Hittite.”
“Perhaps so, my lord. But it’s better that our paths separate here. Let me take my sons and my men, and my blinded servant, and go my own way.”
“To where?”
It was my turn to shrug. “There are always princes in need of good soldiers. I’ll find a place.”
The King of Ithaca stroked his beard for several silent moments. Finally he agreed, “Very well, Hittite. Go your own way. May the gods smile upon you.”
“And upon you, noblest of all the Achaians.”
I never saw Odysseos again.
6
Despite my eagerness to leave Troy, Poletes was in no condition to travel. He lay in my tent all day, drifting in and out of sleep, moaning softly whether asleep or awake.
The camp was bustling, noisy, slaves and
